An Artist's Perspective on Living
by come-to-forks-we-have-edward
Summary: Two artists meet for an exceptional reason, but as life goes on for them together, they don't understand the importance of one another until it's too late. Once they are separated, how far will they go to reunite or will everything fall apart? BxE


An Artist's Perspective on Living

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Pacific Northwest, USA

Day One

The sun hid cowardly behind the dense flock of grey clouds hovering above the Olympic Peninsula. Just as the raging wind picked up once again, I happily slipped into the worn building that is Forks High School, home of the Wondrous Warriors. Whoever came up with that name should be smacked upside their head; there was nothing wondrous about a group of rowdy and hormonal adolescent males that were once sent to the principal's office for being disruptive and violent and are now awarded for doing the very same thing on a 100-yard field. Go Warriors!

A familiar and comforting scent enveloped me once I entered my personal haven: the art room. This was the one place where it didn't matter who you were, what you wore, or where you belong; all that people care about is what you do. Already, the wide, florescent-lit studio was softly buzzing with muted sounds and practiced movements. The painters were stationed at their splattered easels, falling into causal routine as they discussed their weekends with the others around them; their paintbrushes were not yet coated with its first layer of acrylics.

As I pasted by them, the sharp, yet welcoming smell of a seasoned mixture of all-purpose flour, water, and a hint of salt greeted my chilled nose. The art room was kept moderately cold, for the artworks' quality would otherwise evaporate in an enclosed room at 75 degrees Fahrenheit. I saw that the elaborate project the paper machers were working on was nearly complete. The artists behind it were asked by the principal to make a representation of what we, the student body, stood for, but it had to be in "an artistic way". They did a breathtaking job of making the Indian seem as realistic as possible, although I still don't see how a feathered Indian represented a minuscule group of socially incorrect teenagers. Are they trying to tell us that we have our feathers in a bunch? I'm not going to be the one to pop their bubble; let them think as they wish.

I made it to my area, bypassing the potters and sketching students, the females' long hair pulled up into careless ponytails. I followed their lead, removing all but a few pieces of hair from my face and wrapping a black elastic around the thick brown tendrils. As an artist, you cease caring about how you look; appearances didn't matter here.

I reached into the colossal portfolio that tenderly held my uninspired sketches. Mr. Matthews, the art teacher, assigned our semester project topics last week, but this time I had no idea where to start. He had given me such a broad, difficult to express topic that I was empty, dry of an inkling on what to do. I was told to convey love and loss into a painting. How I was to go about this, I didn't know. I had no idea of how much this would change me and my perspective on life.

I'm Isabella Swan, and this is my story.

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Chicago, Illinois

Day One

A muffled glimpse of the modernized composition the exclusive orchestra was playing gave hint as to if I am late or not. The bright melodies being thoroughly rehearsed sidled between the mahogany door and the polished granite flooring, I have my sheet music nestled underneath my left, uniform-clad arm; my right, dominate hand raises assertively to press open the heavy door, unleashing the contrasting tones that bend and blended together effortlessly.

The wooden doors open to grandly reveal the stately music hall. Each and every time that I enter the room with the high, vaulted ceilings, smooth marble flooring, and echoing space, I am amazed at its classical grandeur. Arranged expertly in the center of the expansive hall are the one hundred members of the orchestra: one hundred and one, if I included myself in the count.

Nearly everyone was seated and playing the Bb scale already, even though it was about fifteen minutes before rehearsal was to begin. Our conductor, Dr. Styles, was present and leading the many various instruments through the musical exercises as he did on any other day. I nodded respectfully toward him, greeting him silently, and contently sat down on my designated piano bench, adjusting the height and resting the music on its black stand. As I stretched and manipulated my long, narrow digits, I glanced carefully around. The flutes were in their usual position, near the conductor because of their soft tone. All of the woodwinds seemed to be present and playing, along with the percussion and bass. The string section was sounding a bit empty, and I could quickly understand why: Jane, the young first violinist, was absent today. She was the heart and soul of the string section, and of many men, as well. The cheery music didn't sound as exciting when she wasn't around to spread her glee to everyone and everything.

The crystal and topaz chandelier above me twinkled; I smiled tranquilly, placing my fingers on the rare ivory keys and played. Brilliant, lively notes and tones escapes from the inside of my very being, rolling through my extended arms, and flowing uninterrupted from the fingertips gracing and stroking each unmarred, white key. The feeling was indescribable, passionate, and breathtaking; the feeling was freedom. This is who I am, and who I will be for the rest of my life. Nothing would change this.

My name is Edward Cullen, and I am the first chair pianist of the Chicago Philharmonic Orchestra. This is my story.

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Author's Note: This is an idea that came to me and begged to get written. I'd appreciate it if you review this, but you don't have to, although I do update faster when people remind me to. I won't be updating every few days because school and life is complicating, but I want to get the most I can from this. I'm going to beta shop soon; anyone have a suggestion?

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my brain. Maybe my parents own that until I'm 18. In that case, I own nothing.


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